I can’t really fathom doing so now. I can remember the despair and hopelessness I felt, but it’s hard to really think about. I don’t believe in putting bad feelings to rest (in the sense of burying them without resolving the issue), but I also don’t believe in feeding the feelings either. I look back at those times with empathy, but also with distance.

It’s my least favorite chapter of my life. It is one of the most important, however, and I only look back when I need to learn more lessons from it.

But I’m glad I tried, and I’m glad I failed. I couldn’t be who I am now if I didn’t fail.

I can fail as many times as I like, but I will never lose. I will rise again and win my peace.

I know who I want to be now. I made myself a list of things I want to do, people I want to see or meet, things I want to accomplish. I want to celebrate my life with myself and others. I’ve never done that before, and I want to start.

My mistakes and my accomplishments are mine. I don’t care how ugly or how beautiful they are: they’re mine and I own them. They are within me and don’t belong to anyone else. No one can belittle or champion them and simultaneously affect how I feel about those things. You are not me, and I have no business caring about you speaking your two cents about how I fell or rose. I am what matters.

I do not reject myself. No longer. I embrace all the blemishes and beauty marks, the bruises and the birth marks, the smudges and the blush.

just because you like someone as a person doesn’t mean you have to follow them online – this also applies to loving what someone writes on their blog, but hating their twitter, etc. zero obligation here, remember that

think about engaging more directly with fewer people online than feeling the need to engage with tons of people vaguely – that’s how you roll in real life (making a small amount of people my priority when it comes to love/friendship vs. wasting time with on the surface social butterfly acquaintance bullshit)

spend more time sending messages and emails to people you respect and admire than talking to/about the people who piss you off

when getting wrapped up in an online comment debate, step back. it doesn’t matter who gets “the last word.” if someone refuses to see your point, wasting another 10-15 minutes trying to reiterate your point won’t do any good. if you feel you’ve expressed yourself clearly, move on. (why yes, this is directly about this)

Currently, I’ve been thinking about this in terms of who I follow online. Even if they seem to be really rad people, have perfect fashion style, and seem to support a lot of the communities that I engage them, I have to unfollow them or stop subscribing to their feed if they engage in friendly relations with oppressive people or are uncritical of said person’s behavior. It sounds incredibly anal to some, but if we’re friends, and you’re friends with someone who is openly racist/sexist/fatphobic/transphobic/etc etc/, no matter how ironic it is, if you can’t pass the minimum requirements of a decent human being, you’ve gotta go. I don’t care how gorgeous or un-oppressive you are by posting pictures of marginalized people or liking the posts I write. If the buck doesn’t stop with you, I’m not going to stay in a burning kitchen.

This week’s mix is dedicated to underwear dancing. It was inspired by the moments we all have when we dance in our underwear, regardless of whether that is in the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, or your backyard.

yo, FUCK trying to be like these famous writing white girls. you’re gonna be a famous writing brown girl! GO GET SOME NACHOS.

So, Sara basically paraphrased what I said, but I’m flattered by how she captured my upbeatness and empowering vibes behind my statements to her so well.

The context of the quote is in the idea of whitewashing one’s identity in order to become successful in one’s occupation, as whiteness does not value those voices not within whiteness. Rather than be Sara D. the Magnificent Writer, she becomes the Brown Nightmare Brunette or Marie Colloway. The Quirky Black Girl becomes the Black Zooey Deschanel. We never become ourselves when we forget ourselves. We never own ourselves when we sell ourselves, strip ourselves, bleach out our experiences to give whiteness a sanitized version of ourselves.

I always come back to this James Cone quote, whenever I’m feeling frustrated or small:

Now if you know that you have a humanity that nobody can take away from you, they make lock you up, they may lynch you, but they don’t win.

The greats did not become greats, even as marginalized people, by shedding themselves into shape for the dominant culture; their dignity and experiences were much more important. Our stories need to be told, and the dominant culture will not tell them for us, even as they beg you to trust them.

Forget being someone else’s racial counterpart. They will be singing my praises as a black woman.

I honestly don’t know how I can frame my adoration for Takeuchi Naoko’s mind-spawn turned franchise, for all its incredible depth, for its lush manga artwork, for its ability to make the leap from paper to computer animation, for its life lessons and positive messages, for its unforgettable cast, and especially for the mere existence of Usagi as a character.

I don’t know how I can explain it to anyone. I just can’t, because my eyes brighten to a strong wood brown and I just can’t stop smiling. I feel high.

I can’t imagine growing up without Usagi. She ate nachos with me and fed my inner glutton. She was there and cried with me when my boyfriends dumped me. I jumped into her home with Mama Ikuko and Shingo and co when my own family was too turbulent. She, along with the inner senshi, consoled me when friends left without any word. She was there in the most difficult moments of my life. She’s hasn’t always been with me, obviously, but she’s been everywhere with me for half a decade, even though we met ten years ago on my television screen.

She breathes through me even if she isn’t physically alive. Or, rather, it’s not that she’s not alive; she just doesn’t exist in this plane, but she exists. She lives in me.

Sailor Moon helps me live. Sailor Moon helps me realize what an amazing gift it is to be alive. Sailor Moon tells me that my life and everything that I care for is worth it. And Sailor Moon tells me to be happy with myself, to be at peace and kind and loving to myself.

I don’t need a rod or a compact or a Ginzuishou to tell me that hope is alive. I know it is. Our hope is our strength, our power. Ours, ours, ours. When there’s hope, we survive and replenish one another.

“Sometimes we have love and sometimes we lose love. Sometimes love can hurt terribly like a deep wound. In our world we have lots of ups and downs, pleasures and pains. But that’s life and we learn to accept the bad with the good. Without the bad times we wouldn’t appreciate the good times. Life is precious and I cherish every single moment.”

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2X. Super Smarty Pants. Ambitious & Clever. Ascending to the throne circa 30th century.
This is the story of a black transnational U.S. woman in the twenty-first century. Appreciation for the pleasant things in life: bright color palettes, funk and disco music, and mangoes. This is not an academic blog, but the next Great American Blog™.